Erik and Christine lay silently in the masses of fabrics strewn haphazardly across the organ. The room had grown silent, save for the sound of the wind rushing in and out of their lungs. The warming fires in the stove had greatly diminished. Even now they were barely a glimmer. Thought they lay nearly bare, they were not cold.
"Christine," Erik said gently, "what was it that troubled you so, caused you such worry to plead for us to delay in our mourning for Sara?"
Christine sat up, a sudden chill running down the length of her back. "I do not know how to describe it, to give words to the feeling Erik. It was very much like the visions I've had," her brow furrowed, her look distant, "though my mind was black…not black…as much as uncomprehending…devoid of any sight. I could perceive nothing but the intense sense of apprehension at the very thought of venturing there in the darkness." She glanced down at Erik, who now rose to join her, slipping his arm protectively around her. She looked up at him. "It was not a simple girl's fear of the tales of cemeteries, I can assure you. This was dark, foreboding somehow…" she seemed lost in thought.
Erik leaned over placing a kiss on her temple. "It is all well Christine, do not worry. In truth, Nadir had need to stay in the City, though he'd thought most seriously about returning the ladies to DeChagny's and returning alone on the morrow." Erik said, gently running his hand along Christine's exposed back. "We shall have opportunity to visit the woman before we leave Paris, and to see our dear friends once more, it is as it should be." Erik said trying to soothe her with his reassuring words.
Christine leaned into Erik's embrace. "We should set off Erik. I've no sense of what time it has grown to be, but it must very nearly be morning. The dear woman will want to have some rest. No doubt she's been up all night working on garments for some unappreciative snobbish bores in the City." Christine frowned. "It is a shame really that the poor woman has had to support herself in this way all of these long years." She said as she began to ease herself toward the edge the organ.
Erik slid off with ease, lifting Christine gracefully to her feet. "You shan't pity the woman, she is loathe for anyone to pity her. In truth she feels it has only made her craft all the more perfected, for when one perceives with touch, it is all so very much different than what one perceives with one's eyes. She shared with me, on a number of occasions, that she can feel how someone will receive their garments. Every seam is even, every thread or possible irritation removed so that it is not only comely but comfortable as it lays upon one's skin. She's often bragged that were it not for propriety, that her garments could be worn without corset or slip, as they'd produce no discomfort to the skin."
Erik smiled as he led Christine into the room, gently gliding her slip over her head to rest upon her still damp flesh. He leaned over stroking her collarbone, placing a kiss on her shoulder.
Christine smoothed the satin as Erik retrieved her dress, easily slipping it over her, affixing the ribbons in the back. "She does beautiful work does she not?" Erik said as he turned Christine around to gaze at her. "It suits you my dear." He brushed a stray hair over her shoulder.
"Now I best see to dressing myself shan't I!" Erik said in a chiding manner.
Christine turned and went about making the bed. Erik turned giving her an odd glance. "Christine?" She smiled. "I shall think not to leave your house in such a state."
Erik returned to her side, now fully clothed. "No one will pass here again my dear…why do you worry for appearance?" He twinged at his own hypocrisy. Had he not done the very same thing the day previous?
Christine smiled at him, pecking his cheek. "It is not for anyone else my dear…it is out of respect for a memory that I shall carry with me for the remainder of the days I have breath…a sweet memory….I'll not have it tainted for either of us by any imperfection…no matter how seemingly insignificant now." She smiled once more, reaching out to arrange his cravat.
Erik could do nothing more than shake his head in wonder. Yes, she was young in terms of years, but her soul, the part she would take with her, and share with him…seemed to have the sage wisdom of a woman bent from the weight of years upon her frame, wrinkled and experienced in the matters of the mind and heart. She amazed him with her words more often than not.
"Very well my dear, as you will," Erik said turning his attentions to putting out the fire in the stove. The smoldering ashes provided little resistance once smothered. He moved now from candle to candle, extinguishing them with a long handled snuffer.
Christine watched, knowing that with each candle that lost its light the moments were moving progressively into the past rather than the present. One could not tarry in a moment forever, she knew, but if she could, she would have chosen ones such as these.
Finally Erik held in his hand the last lit candle as he took Christine's hand and led her over to the plank that lay pushed up against the craggy rocks. He used his foot to balance it as she climbed on it with the agility of a gazelle. Carefully, he climbed on along side her, holding her closely until it ceased in its rocking. They gazed back at the organ, at the bed. Erik's eyes traveling once more through the cavern that would now lay abandoned, never to be occupied by the Phantom. One day he alone would return to gather the remainder of his fortune, but for now, it would be a very long good-bye.
He thrust the pole into the waters, pushing them away from the shore. They clung to one another as they passed through the porticos, and out into the channel beyond the lagoon. Erik pressed a lever, and the great candelabras sank slowly into the depths of the now darkened waters. As the last of the light flickered from view, Erik leaned down carefully kissing Christine's forehead. "Thank you my love." He whispered. "Thank you from the very bottom of my soul…"
Christine nestled her head into Erik's chest. They both knew that their business there had been settled. If they were never to see those caverns again, they shan't mourn for something that had never taken place, for they'd seen to putting every fantasy to rest.
XXXX
The rider had swiftly dismounted his steed in the stables behind the Opera Populaire. The stable master had given nothing more than a discerning glance and nod to the man as he took the reins of the beast leading it in for food and rest. From the looks of things the poor horse had been ridden hard, for how long or far, he could not say.
His head was swimming, whether it be from the fog, or the drug, or the lack of proper rest, he did not know, but it felt as if he were operating from beyond his own body, an existential collection of thoughts and movements that motivated him onward.
The stairs in the foyer of the Opera House seemed pristine and polished to perfection, normally something he would have reveled in. Tonight, nay in the fleeting twilight, they were nothing more than a perfunctory tool taking him from one floor to the next. His destination was not the upper floors, nor was it the dormitories, nor even the level of the props-master, but deeper still. As he passed through the back rooms that were normally littered with every surfeit of stage prop, he noticed only that his travels were not impeded.
He had made his way to the delivery entrance, and to the flight of stairs he'd sought months before. They had been lighted then by the ranks of the Opera House, and held for him mild terror then. His present state was far more than terror, it was a self-induced, drug littered consciousness, that produced every manner of suspicion and fear that a man in his naïve heart, and frail soul could muster. He was to travel it in near blackness, for nary a torch could be found.
Making his way down, circling floor after floor, until he'd thought himself lost within the workings of his own mind. Indeed had he but imagined it all? The walls were chilled and slimy in parts, causing him, on several occasions, to recoil in disgust. His mind was swimming, not only from the wound at the back of his head, but also at the thought that the only weapon he had was the pistol in the belt about his waist, and even that contained only three bullets. He'd found it on the table in the library. In his haste, he'd not wanted to tarry taking the time to refit himself with more.
In truth, his flight into Paris that night had been more of a reflex than a conscious decision; and even now as he descended, he questioned himself. Had he not already found a love that was more suited? Seemingly the one foretold by his mother? It had given him pause at more than one point in his journey to the depths, but it was some other unspoken commitment from long ago that drove him deeper still at great peril to himself. For what would he truly do if he found him? Would he too be laid to rest next to the body of the one to whom he'd been betrothed, Meg never knowing whatever had become of him?
He simply chose to forget all of the potential repercussions, and focus only on that which drove him to the depths in the first….he had seen him…and something…something had happened when that boy had aimed his gun at him…he had not shot him…he knew he had not…but why…who….that was what drove him. If the beast was to make an end to him, then so be it. If the beast had mind to return Christine, then so be it. If it had been his imagination….then certainly he would learn of it. For if the visit produced nothing…if he found nothing…then he would dismiss his thoughts as folly and accept that which was being told of him, that he had indeed made a glorious end to the notorious Crawlings. As for now, he would accept nothing until he was certain that the monster had not returned.
How then would he be assured that the beast would have tarried there? He did not know But something of instinct had taken over, and he could not fight it. It was because of that very instinct that he found himself where he was now. If the visit left him empty-handed and wondering, he would venture to the floors above where the others certainly had taken leave and even now rested in those comforts. If he did indeed find the Phantom, as he suspected….well….nature would take a hand in how that interaction would play out.
Raoul dabbed at his brow as he came to what he was certain was the final floor. There had been a great lion head protruding from the last of the stairs, something he had noted the first time he had passed this way, surely his memory did not fail him, and the waterway that led to the lair would be not far off on the right.
He walked along the even corridor until he came to an opening which he knew would contain either boat or raft of some sort. If it did not…if it did not…he would have to wait. Even in his hazy stupor, Raoul knew he was not yet well enough to plunge into the frigid depths of the waters traversing them as he once had. His hands eagerly searched the dark cavern for what seemed to be an eternity until he'd happened upon a rather large plank, carelessly abandoned at the water's edge. He felt a bit more, and there was a pole. His head was pounding, his heart racing. He'd no idea if what he now ventured to do was wise, but he'd no choice. It was either run and live in fear, or face the very thing that one feared the most. He'd decided that fate could no sooner be outrun than one could avoid death itself…he would face that which he'd feared head on…and if it led to his demise…he'd already settled in his heart and mind, and more importantly with God, that if it were to be as such, he would go with a clean conscience.
As he passed through the water, he remembered, with impressive clarity, the exact location of the lair, and the realization that the lever lay hidden in the murky waters to the left of the porticos. It was not long and Raoul heard as the gate began to rise, and the water moved aside allowing him access. It was with much needless trepidation that he finally found his way inside the cavernous grotto. It was decidedly warmer than the outer corridors, but that could have been attributed to any number of things.
As Raoul disembarked on the inner shore, he thought he was driving himself quite mad. The caverns had all been dark, and the walls as cold and clammy as any neglected surface exposed to moisture would be. Though if he did not know better, he'd have said that the aura of those that had been there, if any had been there, was merely hours old. He'd no real idea of how he would prove or disprove his theory, he knew only the feeling in his gut that had driven him out of his secure bed, out unescorted into the wilderness that separated his estate from Paris. It had been strong enough….real enough…that he could not deny it…whatever the cost.
Raoul shivered as much from fear and weariness as he did from the chill that cut through him to the bone. It was dark, and in that blackness, one's mind could conjure all manner of demon and beast laying in wait for the opportune time to pounce and subdue…devour. His eyes were as wide as a man driven wild in torture as he traveled slowly, at first at a crawl on his hands and knees as he waited for the pounding of his chest in his ears to abate.
If there had been an element of surprise, or entrapment, surely whatever he feared would vanquish him, would have done so once his foot was upon the soils. Feeling a bit more empowered by the verity he still had breath.
He rose, blinking hard in great effort to acclimate his eyes to the lack of light. Had there been anything, any glimmer or even a shaft of shadowy light, he'd have something to give him bearing, but there was not. He reached his hands out precariously in front of him as though he were a blind man, not knowing what he would do if he fell upon something that was living; he was hardly in a position to aim a weapon! What if in all of this toil he'd happen upon her, prisoner, and put an end to her himself in his fear? No, no, that careless he would not be.
He shuffled along as though an old blind beggar, scuffing along the streets in search of home or hand-out. His hand hit upon something and retracted instinctually…was that hot? Reticently he stretched out his hand once more, hitting upon a firm structure, and retracting once more, before going in for a third and more explorative touch. His hand came to rest on something, and yes…he gasped drawing in a lung full of the putrid air…it was hot. He reached out his other hand, quickly deducing it was an iron stove, one not unlike what was in the corner of the kitchen at DeChagny manor.
His eyes grew wide though they still had no vision, surely this was his senses conspiring against his mind…there was no other evidence that he was anything but completely alone. He knelt before the frame he was searching with his hands until he happened upon a handle. He inhaled, repositioning himself on his haunches, hand on the pistol in his belt. Slowly he opened the small door, and there the blackness was pierced, a small bed of fragmented embers glowed a hot orange, now having a fresh supply of air upon which to feed.
Raoul nearly toppled over…he had not been wrong…someone, nay something still dwelled here…he had not been wrong. And suddenly a terror seized at his heart….if he were back, and the stove still hot…where….where was he now? Raoul reeled back onto his knees, his head spinning as if he'd come off of some revolving Farris wheel at the world's fair. His head pounded as he could feel the blackness turning even blacker still…sliding now to his back, his limbs splayed in awkward positions hither and yonder. Though the sharp pains in his skull made his body protest, he could move no further until he'd found his bearings.
If he would be found there quiet devoid of life…he could not help himself. He lay quite literally whimpering for his life. In his estimation it had been a pathetic one. Full of all of the things fine young men did, men of particular breeding or position on the social order…all that mattered little now. He could feel that the bleeding had started once again, the warmth of the blood now running down his neck. He blinked heavily, he'd heard a sound, a strange sound coming from the water, a violent sloshing of current here and there. Though he feared, he could not move; nay he could do nothing but lay there…lay there and await his fate.
XXXX
The prop master trembled as he held his small torch above his head. He'd not traveled that far down before, but he'd gone on what he had overheard of the stories the men had told the night the Opera House burned nearly to the ground. As he moved through the waters he felt himself chilled through and through, and had half a mind to turn back, but he'd ventured this far, and he'd had it in him to lay to rest the very thoughts that tormented him, tugged at his very sanity.
It was neither fear nor mere inquisitiveness that brought him there that night, it was his selfish regard for his mind, for surely he thought himself to have taken leave of his senses. He could not rest since first he'd heard, felt the reverberating of the stone on his back…he simply had to know for his own good, and for the sake of the woman…had he heard it, had he heard the music? For if he had, then likely his eyes had not deceived him before, and perhaps he would once again be praying to stay in good favor with the one who would rein over the Opera House with an iron fist as he had before.
No light shown in the dark, save the light from the torch spitting and crackling at the end of the stick he held. It was with considerable struggle that he'd made his way through the various turns and twist, beholding gargoyle and cherub, lion, and hunter, and other things he could not give name to. Finally he came to a wide opening in the caverns. He thought he could hear something though he could not discern its identity. He drew closer and closer to the opening, as if drawn into the mouth of some sleeping monster only to be swallowed whole, but he did not hesitate, he had to know. He felt something patter across his head, holding his torch high, and leaning back he looked up to see a great iron gate, lifted into the recesses of the craggy rock, the tips of the bottom pointing down at him like great steely teeth poised to rip him flesh from bone.
Then it hit him, as the next drop fell to his flesh, if the gate was dripping water, it had not long been out of the lake itself! His heart began to pound, his eyes wide and wild as they had ever been. He heard it again; a low guttural sound, a groan, nearly a growl. He thought he would faint from the mere fright of it, turning about face rushing as fast as he could through the waters.
At one point his fear overtook him as the echo from his own movements sounded as if they were pursuing him. He let out a shrill cry that frightened him further still. In his rush, he tripped on something in the water, catching his feet it pulled him beneath the surface. He struggled, a rush of terror gripping at him further as he thrashed around in the waters trying to regain his footing to no avail. Whatever had caught him held him fast, there would be no escape from what was sure to come.
Slowly he began to relax. His struggling easing in acknowledgement of its futility. He would face it. Face what would now surely come. He closed his eyes, the last of the air pushing out of his lungs rising in a great gurgle to the surface of the water.
In his mind he could see it. The smiling face of the woman who'd come to dinner to find no one home. The fear of the woman who he'd escorted reluctantly to LeMortem Street…it was a sweet last thought he decided as his mind began to grow numb.
Then, through the stillness of what he was certain was his last fleeting thought came a great tug, a grasp by the front of his cloak, and a sharp pain about his ankle. Before he could tell what was happening he found himself leaned up against the cold hard stone. A great thrust against his back had dislodged the water from his lungs, and he was coughing. He opened his eyes searching wildly in the darkness for what had released him from his certain fate. He could see nothing; but he heard it, as he had so many times, the sharp executed flutter of a cloak drawn in haste, the snap of the corner of it as it broke through the air…and then there was silence. He sat gasping…he had been as good as dead….and now…more than ever…he was certain that the Phantom was back…..and he had been the beneficent of his favor.
XXXXX
Raoul now lay entirely awake, whimpering on the shores of the grotto. He could neither move nor respond to what he had heard, but of one thing he was most certain. If it had been he that had traveled into that very corridor but moments before, it would have been his shrill scream that would have been heard, and not that of some other poor man whose demise of which he was now certain. The strangulated sound that had traveled the caverns, he was certain was the man at the end of his life, for even now there was a sickening silence….it was nearly deafening.